


The Shrike To Your Thorn

by preach_electric



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: (kind of), Agent Curt Mega Has ADHD, Alcohol, Canon Typical Violence, Curtwen, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Death, Slow Burn, Smoking, be gentle I'm fragile, blood and injuries, car crash, curt mega the king of denying feelings, first multi chap fic i've done, his name is literally welsh it’s Right There, hope you enjoy :), it's about the [luck], pre canon to post canon, pre relationship to post relationship, welsh owen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preach_electric/pseuds/preach_electric
Summary: What wouldst thou have with me?Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives.---------Owen is one unlucky man.A vignette fic.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 22
Kudos: 67





	1. One

Agent Owen Carvour was like a cat. That was one of the first things anyone needed to know about him. Rather, that was one of the first things anyone  _ noticed _ about him. His feline-like manner, the way he carried himself- gracefully, but with power- watchful eyes that didn’t miss a thing. He was loyal to those he cared for. Always landed on his feet. Filled with curiosity- it hadn’t killed him yet.

He was also similar to a cat in the way that no one knew whether he was lucky or not. Too many close calls to truly know which side of the penny Carvour was situated on. He was comfortable where he was, nonetheless. He would often come across a black cat, let it cross his path, give it a small nod of his head, and carry on his way. Whether he had just lost or gained luck wasn’t a bother to Owen; instead, he was just grateful to have seen a cat. Lovely creatures, they were.

He’d always been a cat person. Couldn’t stand dogs. Big and loud and dirty and slobbery. No, thank you- Owen would much prefer a small, compact, peaceful cat. Cleaned themselves, no damp dog smell, no obnoxiously loud chew toys. Just small and soft little darlings. Owen politely ignored the sharp claws and tendency to spitefully knock things over.

The other thing about cats is that they’re stealthy. Quiet, creeping, anonymous. When was the last time you figured out a cat was sneaking up on you? They’re like well trained assassins; they’ll catch you off guard and attack you when you least expect it.

Funny. Just like Owen.

_ “Get down!”  _ A yell came from around the corner. Curt’s head popped up from behind a large wooden crate, eyes wide in confusion as he looked for the source of the voice.

“What!? I’m already down!” His eyes were scanning around the warehouse for the approximately six-foot-tall silhouette he knew was in the area somewhere. After hearing voices coordinating in a different language from down the hall, he promptly crouched back down behind the crate. “ _ You  _ get down! Fuckin’ tree, you’re like a walking target!”

“Mega!” The voice, whilst not being yelled anymore, was louder now. More intimate. Curt whipped his head around to find an exasperated British man mere inches away from him, sitting next to him on the cold concrete floor of the warehouse. His deft hands were wrapped around an almost too shiny looking gun, positioned in a way that he would be prepared to shoot instantly. “Focus, please?”

“What-- but you--“ Curt let out a grunt of annoyance. His new partner often rubbed him the wrong way. The amount of missions they’d been on together could be counted with a single hand (and you wouldn’t even need two of the fingers) and there was no connection between the two of them- Curt honestly couldn’t see one coming to life any time soon.

Cynthia had made him sound so good, like he would be an honour to work with. In fact, those were her exact words;

_ “You’ll be working with Agent Owen Carvour, Her Majesty’s best. And wipe that fucking look off your face, Mega- you’ll be grateful or else. It’ll be an honour to work with him, I’m sure. MI6 know better than to send me anything vaguely resembling a shit show. That’s why I’ve never sent you, you know- my reputation can’t handle that embarrassment. Curt Mega representing the US Government in Britain? You’d start World War 3. Hell, you’d start the fourth one, too.” _

Instead of this amazing hero of an agent he’d been promised, Curt found himself paired with a British spy that had a short temper and was adamant that he was always right. The man was arrogant; so full of himself and always walked with an air of cockiness that left a less than sweet aftertaste in Curt’s mouth. He often joked to himself that Carvour was always showing himself off like a bird trying to attract a mate. For all he knew the man was hiding some feathers under that worn in jacket he always wore.

He was surprised that he didn’t  _ have  _ a ‘mate’. Or, at least he didn’t think he did- his ring finger was empty. As annoying as the man was, he was attractive. Curt could see a desperate doll latching herself onto him back in England, getting him to pop the question within a few months, and have the underwhelming wedding of her dreams soon after. Thank God Curt didn’t have to deal with that. The thought of having his own girl made him laugh out loud; no, no- he’d stick to men, thank you.

“Mega! Come on. Concentrate.” Owen’s brows were furrowed just slightly, his face looking slightly sour as he put all his attention into locating their marks. Curt just rolled his eyes, shifting his position slightly to make himself look more alert.

He’d have to talk to Owen about that- that he struggles to focus sometimes. Owen might be an annoying partner, but he needed to know. And, well, if he gave him any shit for it he’d sock him in the jaw. Make it just a little bit more crooked.

Owen nudged Curt’s arm with his elbow to get his attention and waited for Curt to focus on him. Once his gaze had locked onto Owen, he made a few complicated looking hand gestures then pointed behind them, over the crate.

“…What?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Do they teach you  _ nothing  _ that side of the pond?” Owen was rolling his eyes like it was the only thing keeping him alive, and the growing appeal of punching him was maybe just  _ too  _ enticing for Curt.

“Yeah, they do, actually. Evidently not whatever..” Curt mockingly made a few random gestures with his hands to make a point. “ _ This  _ was. Why use your hands? Just talk. Your mouth’s big enough, tell me what your plan is.”

“You are absolutely insufferable, Mega--”

“--thank you--”

“--Just- Jesus Christ. Just follow me.”

“No-- wait-- hey--!” Owen ran off like he had never been there in the first place. Like smoke dissipating in the wind. Like a breath of air on a cold day. Like a British man abandoning an American one. The only proof he’d been there was the scowl left on Curt’s face.

Curt had no choice but to jump up over the crate that had served as their hiding spot and run after him. Gun in one hand, the other clenched in frustration, he followed the trail of arrogance around the warehouse to where he hoped Owen would be. He did occasionally catch a glimpse of well polished loafers dashing round a corner, but otherwise spotting Owen was as rare as seeing a unicorn.

He was as high maintenance as one, anyway. Long hair, prim and proper, always looking perfect..

“Carvour!” Curt was aiming for a whisper, but his vocal chords got the better of him. He yelled, quickly turning around a corner and--

“ _ Shush! _ ” An angry Owen thrust his hand out and caught Curt before he ran past. Slamming them both against the wall, he put a single finger to his lips and looked pointedly at Curt.

Curt’s chest was heaving from the running and the shock of the Brit hiding and jumping out, but he did as he was told. He shut up and mouthed an exaggerated  _ ‘what?’  _ at Owen, trying to crane his head to see what they were hiding from. 

Owen’s hand stuck out once more and pushed Curt’s head back to the wall, forcing him to duck down just slightly so he could look over him. Curt’s face was one of discontent. Eyebrows pointed down and a pout on his lips. He might as well have been crossing his arms and tapping a foot, too.

“Over there,” Owen spoke lowly, not looking at Curt but pointing ahead, eyes trained on something in the distance. “Four guards. All armed.”

Eyes widening in understanding, Curt looked up at Owen to figure out what his next move would be. Up close like this, Curt could notice more of the details Carvour had; the barely there speckle of stubble over the lower half of his face, the way he squinted his eyes slightly whilst thinking, the small scar he had on the left side of his jaw. 

That’s a story he could ask about one day- if they ever became close enough, that is. Maybe it was from some adventure he had as a child- does he seem like the tree-climbing type? Maybe sports. What did they have in Britain? Football? But the fake kind. Or maybe, like Curt, someone got so sick of him they decided decking him would be the best course of action. Curt smiled thinking about that.

“-- paying attention?” Owen was looking down at Curt, no malice on his face this time.

“Oh- uh- yeah.” Curt nodded, as if that would help solidify his lie. Owen just eyed him up for a second longer before continuing speaking, as if he was trying to decipher a code- as if he was trying to understand Curt. 

“As I was saying,” Owen turned his focus back to the guards, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips before continuing. “We need to neutralise those men. By the looks of it.. handgun, rifle, and a knife or two each.”

Curt, looking down at the singular gun he was holding, muttered out a sour  _ ‘great’.  _ Owen shot him a look that, if he understood properly, was telling him to stop being so pessimistic. He could do that.

“What now, then?” Curt practically stage whispered. 

“..How good a shot are you?”

“Oh. Um.” That caught Curt off guard. “Decent?”

“And is ‘decent’ America’s best?” Owen looked at him with a raised eyebrow, shifting on his feet a little as he repositioned against the wall. “Or is someone lying to me?”

“..I’m a good shot. Better close range, but still good.” Curt paused, happy enough with that answer. “Haven’t you read my file?”

“ _ You  _ didn’t write your file. They don’t know your skills as well as you do. Always bodes well to check. And besides,” Owen opened the magazine of his gun to check the amount  of rounds still remaining, clicking it back into place after a second. “Now I know I’m better at long distance than you.”

“Your file didn’t say that.”

“And that’s why you check, love.”

‘Love’. That’s new. 

“‘Love’?”

“Mhm.” Owen tucked a stray lock of his hair back into place. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Oh- no.” Attractive man calling him ‘love’? He could get used to that. “Just different.”

“You Americans are something else.” Owen was practically tutting, as if Curt had just used every cuss word under the sun. 

“No, we just don’t address our colleagues by pet names.”

“‘Colleagues’? So cold. Say ‘partners’.”

“How very forward of you.” Curt’s voice was almost monotonous, complete apathy to whatever the Brit was fretting about right now. Who gives a shit about what they called each other? At least Curt wasn’t calling him ‘pig’ or ‘redcoat’. Though, that would be fun just to watch Carvour’s reaction. “Just tell me the plan.”

“You’re agreeable all of a sudden.” Owen was patting down his pockets as if he was looking for something, a slight smirk playing at his lips. The smirk turned into a smile when his hands emerged from his breast pocket with a single cigarette and a lighter. He carefully placed the cigarette between his lips and held it there for a second, eyeing Curt up.  “D’you mind?”

Curt shook his head. Despite the fact that Owen irritated him to no end, and despite the fact that he thought smoking smelt disgusting, and despite the fact that Curt was not open about the fact that he was gay, Curt found himself watching Owen’s lips intensely. 

He watched the way his lips curled around the cigarette, slightly parted and held in place by his teeth. He watched the way his lips were arched in such a way that he was giving a lazy, lopsided smirk to no one in particular. He watched the way one of his cheeks dimpled just slightly as the smirk got more intense. He watched the way his lips started to move, cigarette moving along with them as words were formed between plush lips. He watched the way-- wait--

“-Like what you see, or something?” 

Ah. Shit. He’d been caught staring.

Curt opened his mouth to give some half-assed excuse but Owen raised a single digit to his lips, promptly shutting him up. 

“Save it. Ogle all you want, I don’t care.” Owen brought up a lighter from somewhere and, in one fluid motion, lit the cigarette. 

It was actually unfair how suave Carvour was.

Taking a moment to breathe in the smoke of the cigarette, two of Owen’s deft fingers came up to pull it from his lips, mouth forming a small ‘o’ shape and blowing out the smoke- in the opposite direction to Curt, thankfully. 

“The plan,” Owen started, glancing over at Curt. “Is to take them down.”

“No shit.” 

“You’re going to stay here,” Owen ignored him, taking another quick drag of the cigarette. “And I’m going to station myself there, behind those warehouse containers. I have eight rounds left. There’s four of them. I should be able to neutralise them easily.”

“And what am I doing during all of this?” Curt was almost offended. “Reading the funnies and doing my hair?”

“No, Mega, you’re going to cover me.” 

“How exciting.”

“Mission’s aren’t about fulfilling your need for adrenaline, Mega, they’re about fulfilling the brief and prohibiting criminals.”

Curt paused. He hated when Owen was right. 

“Whatever.” 

Owen looked at him, eyebrows just slightly furrowed. He wordlessly took a few more drags from the cigarette. 

“How many rounds do you have?”

Curt quickly checked, tucking his handgun back into the small gap between his hips and the waistband of his trousers. 

“Seven.”

“That’ll do. Don’t shoot all willy-nilly. Only fire if I’m actually at risk. Or yourself, of course. But, for the love of God,” Owen returned the cigarette to his lips. “Don’t draw unnecessary attention to yourself. Any questions?”

Curt blinked. 

“Why do you smoke?”

Owen sighed.

“Irrelevant.”

He threw the cigarette on the floor and stamped out what was left of it with his heel. Just a small pile of ash remained on the concrete, and Curt spared it a glance before looking back up at Owen. 

No matter what, Owen always seemed to have a packet of smokes somewhere on his person. He didn’t seem like the addict type, but Curt hadn’t gone a single day with Owen without seeing him take one between his lips. Stress? Force of habit? Did he  _ like  _ it?

Yet another question for another time. 

Owen took his gun in his hand, giving it a once over to ensure everything was as it should be, then looked over at Curt with something that almost resembled a smile. It was just a  _ bit _ too sour. Didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Good luck. Don’t bugger it up.” 

And with that, Owen left.

Curt liked to think that he was perfectly capable of covering someone. Out of all the things he could be tasked to do, this was one of the most fail-proof. Be on the lookout, armed and ready, shoot if needed. Easy.

He got himself into a comfortable position against the wall, grabbing the gun from where he’d tucked it away before, and, like Owen, gave it a quick once over. 

Seven rounds. Four guards. Two agents. One mission.

Easy.

He surveyed the area, clocking any blind spots he had and locating any alcoves or cavities where more guards could be hiding- or, God, any openings where more could emerge. With only fifteen rounds between them, they’d be pushing it if more arrived. 

Damn low budgeting.

Curt took a moment to breathe, grounding himself so he could turn his attention to the task at hand. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked around the warehouse, trying to locate Owen.

Warehouse container, warehouse container, warehouse container…

With the area so quiet like this, Curt could notice the beat of his own heart. The pulse travelling around his body, the feeling of blood rushing through him, points on his neck and wrists almost fluttering. It seemed to get louder in his ears, his heart feeling like it was in his throat. 

Curt was never sure if what he felt before a mission was anxiety or excitement. Maybe a dangerous mix of the both. It was no surprise to anyone that he chased adrenaline- the more on the line his life was, the better. Whenever anyone asked him ‘why?’, all he would do was shrug. ‘Why not?’

It brought excitement into a life that, without this job, had been relatively boring. Single mother, no siblings, friends that rarely liked to step outside of their comfort zone. He craved adventure. He wanted to see the world. He wanted to help people. All three of these combined into one decently paying job was like a dream come true. 

He spotted Owen. True to his word, he had stationed himself behind the faded navy blue warehouse container he had pointed to earlier. From there, Curt imagined he had a straight shot to the group of guards.

The guards  _ were  _ well armed. Curt was itching to get his hands on those weapons- take them back to the agency with him. Keep them for another mission. He didn’t know if Cynthia would allow that, but as relatively new agents with an impossibly low budget, he needed to take into account future affairs. 

He wouldn’t feel bad about stealing a few guns from guards for a huge crime syndicate. 

He caught Owen silently raising his gun, arm outstretched as he most likely aimed perfectly. Stupid Carvour. Being good at everything and  _ looking  _ good while doing it. No wonder he was so aggressively cocky most of the time, walking around like hot stuff and acting like the next Bond. Curt was lucky he was--

**_BANG._ **

Shit. Shit, who was that, who had just--

**_BANG. BANG._ **

God, guns were fucking loud.

Who was shooting? 

Was Owen safe?

Curt hurriedly sought out Owen, finding him still standing behind the container. He had pressed himself up against the metal of its walls, hair now messed up and gun clutched to his chest as he breathed heavily. Almost panting. 

Curt directed his attention to the guards. 

Shit.

Fuck.

Where were they?

There was a single body on the floor.

Blood spilling out from the entry wound. 

That was still a jarring sight for Curt.

He wasn’t breathing at least.

_ Fuck. _

Where were the other guards?

Screw the plan. 

Curt’s feet were moving before his brain had even come up with a final destination. He spared a glance at Owen, who was still stood behind the same container but was aiming in the opposite direction. Curt couldn’t see the guards,  _ where were the fucking guards-- _

**_BANG._ **

Jesus Christ!

He heard the drop of a body to the floor. He hoped to God it wasn’t Owen.

_ Now  _ his heart was in his throat. 

This was supposed to be  _ easy. _

His hand was verging on clammy as he gripped his gun. 

He sprinted around another corner before freezing in his tracks.

Another body.

Not Owen’s.

He carried on.

Two guards were left. Owen had been right- he  _ was  _ better at long distance. That also meant he had at most six rounds left. Curt hadn’t shot yet. Thirteen. 

How fucking lucky.

He kept on running, trying hopelessly to find the remaining two guards. His arms were raised with his fingers toying with the trigger of his gun, prepared to shoot at any given  moment.

He heard a voice and threw himself against the nearest wall, ears trained on the sound to figure out its direction. 

Behind.

Curt readied himself to attack. He heard creeping footsteps approaching. The  _ click, click, click _ of heels against the concrete. Too hard for Owen’s loafers. 

He threw himself around the corner.

He pointed his gun.

He pulled the trigger.

**_BANG._ **

A guard fell to the floor.

Twelve rounds left. 

Better.

Where was the other fucking guard?

He looked over his shoulder.

He couldn’t see Owen.

Great.

He’d better not be fucking dead.

Too much damn paperwork.

Curt’s chest was heaving. 

He leant down to the body laying in front of his feet and grabbed a gun.

He tucked it in his belt.

He carried on. 

He ran a hand through his hair as he tried to calm himself down.

One guard left. 

One guard, and two agents. 

One guard with four weapons, and two agents with three.

Curt didn’t like being told the odds.

His footsteps felt heavy as he ran around the warehouse.

His breathing was erratic.

He could hear his pulse roaring in his ears.

Where the fuck was Owen?

Stupid Carvour. 

He passed a bloody footprint on the floor. 

Too small for Owen’s shoes.

His breath was falling heavy from his mouth.

Just one guard.

Curt could find him.

He  _ could. _

He passed yet another container.

He turned around yet another corner.

He--

**_BANG._ **

And, for the first time, he heard a scream after the gunshot.

A scream that was not familiar, but identifiable.

Owen’s.

_ Fuck. _

Curt could barely think as he sprinted towards the noise.

He wasn’t even paying attention to where the final guard was.

He must be lucky, though.

He turned a corner and ran up behind him.

Curt wordlessly raised his gun.

He pulled the trigger.

**_BANG._ **

The guard fell to the floor.

Owen.

_ Owen. _

He was close. 

He could tell. 

Round a corner.

Another. 

Another.

_ There. _

Owen was on the floor. 

His breathing was shallow.

His eyes were clenched.

His hand was covering his side.

There was.. Blood.

So much blood.

Curt threw himself on the ground next to him.

Curt threw his gun on the ground next to him.

“Carvour,” he placed his hand on Owen’s arm and shook him gently. He waited for Owen’s eyes to open before carrying on. “Stay with me.”

He was barely there. Glassy eyes, barely breathing, unfocused on anything. 

“Oh, good.” Owen’s voice was weak. “You didn’t die.”

Owen passed out.

**_One down. Eight to go._ **


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tread carefully if violence/blood isn't your thing!

The thing about living alone that Curt loved was the complete privacy that came along with it. No awkward “I can explain!” when crashing through the door at 4AM covered in blood and mud and whatever  _ that _ weird stain was. No apologetic glances the morning after traipsing round the apartment at 4:30AM and turning the shower on full blast. No tense “are you.. okay?” after collapsing into bed at 5AM and cursing loudly when agitating the bruises and what was suspected to be a fractured rib.

No, none of that. Just nice, peaceful alone time to curse and fumble around as much as he pleased.

Plus, no one stole his milk.

The same thing happened every morning for Curt. A nice, simple schedule to follow that induced no kind of stress whatsoever.

Step one: Wake up later than intended.

Step two: Throw yourself into the bathroom and  _ Jesus Christ _ is that a bird’s nest on your head?

Step three: Your breath stinks. Brush your teeth in the shower. Time management is key.

Step four: Great, you forgot the damn toothpaste. Quickly, jump out and get it- DON’T SLIP--

Step five: Grab the first towel you see and dry everything. Run back to your room and throw on your clothes. Your fashion sense doesn’t exist when you’re in a rush.

Step six: Life is a marathon and you are so very far behind. Make the world’s most haphazard cup of coffee and gulp it down like your life depends on it.

Step seven: No time for breakfast. Steal something from the fridge at work.

Step eight: Now is the  _ worst _ time to lose your cologne. Spray something else. Make yourself smell decent. That does  _ not _ smell  _ decent-- _

Step nine: Out the door, in the car, foot down,  _ drive. _

And that’s how Curt found himself sprinting up the stairs to Cynthia Houston’s office. He took a moment to stand outside the door and compose himself, straightening his shirt and tucking it back in properly. He spared a glance at the wall of windows lining the hallway and noticed that his hair was  _ fluffy _ . He rarely ever left his apartment without slicking his hair back with product lest he look like a cloud. He  _ certainly  _ hadn’t ever gone to work looking like this. 

He licked the palm of his hand and tried to tame the beast on top of his head, failing spectacularly and possibly even making the situation much worse. He woefully asked himself why hats were seen as improper to wear inside when the door to his left was suddenly opened, making him jump when he turned and came face to face with Susan. 

His face was.. blank. His eyes trailed from Curt’s face and down his body, judging the clothing choices he’d made that morning, and meeting his feet. Curt shifted just slightly and hoped that Susan wouldn’t notice the odd socks hiding beneath his shoes. Gone seemingly under the radar, Susan’s eyes snapped back up to Curt’s head. Not quite meeting his eyes. Wandering up just slightly.

_ Oh. Oh, shit. He’s twigged the hair. _

Susan let out one small snort of a laugh before stepping back, opening the door slightly wider and letting Curt in.

Curt squinted his eyes at Susan just slightly before pushing past him into the smoky lion’s den. He heard Susan push the door closed behind him and Curt’s eyes darted around the room, taking in its occupants.

Sitting behind her desk with a cigarette in hand was none other than Cynthia Houston herself. She had her signature snarky expression on her face and, as usual, she was not sitting in her chair properly. She was practically lounging in it, her legs raised and rested on the desktop. Items had very obviously been moved out of the way to make room for her feet, heels shining ruby red just like Dorothy, her hand creeping over her ashtray to flick at her cigarette.

There was however someone who  _ was  _ sitting in her chair properly, directly in front of Cynthia’s desk. Curt felt like he vaguely recognised her, but then again, many women in the agency had blonde hair and glasses. She was sitting perfectly upright and wearing a white lab coat with some peculiar looking stains, seemingly having just been taken from whatever work she had been doing. Her hands were resting gently on her legs, thumbs twiddling with what appeared to be toned back nervousness. Looking closely, Curt could see her leg bouncing just slightly. She had a soft smile lighting up her face and a warm expression in her eyes, despite everything else.

The final person in the room was standing by the window. Looking outside, back to the room, his long brunet hair completely recognisable to Curt. Even just standing there silently, his impossibly long legs in a wide stance with his arms crossed in front of him, he still somehow left an impression on the room and everyone within it. He was so  _ still _ . It was almost serene. The only movement Curt could notice from him was the gentle rise and fall of his breath, shoulders raising up then gently moving back into place. It could have been soothing if the location was anywhere but there.

Looking back to Cynthia, she was putting out her cigarette in the plain, boring ashtray on her desk, immediately going into her breast pocket and taking out another one. Placing it between her lips, she unceremoniously flicked her lighter and lit the cigarette, throwing the Zippo back down with no kind of finesse. She took one long drag from it before holding it between her manicured fingers, smoke rising from the tip and dancing into the air. 

Such a shame there was no music.

Cynthia eyed Curt up, eyes narrowing and chewing her bottom lip between her teeth in thought, somehow not disrupting the lipstick painted on her lips. Susan had moved so that he was standing behind her, resting his clasped hands on his stomach and displaying a barely contained smirk on his face.

The room was uncomfortably silent. No wonder that poor girl was twiddling her thumbs- if Curt were in her situation he’d be just the same. No one had moved apart from Susan and Curt hated the awkward stillness in the room. He quickly glanced at everyone before telling himself  _ ‘fuck it’ _ and taking a step forward, placing himself into the chair next to who Curt had skillfully deduced as a maybe-lab-tech.

“Mega.”

Ah. There we go.

“So nice of you to join us-” Cynthia threw a glance at the clock hanging wonkily on the wall. “Thirteen minutes late. You know your time management is very important to me and, well, exemplary skills being shown here.”

“Alarm didn’t go off.”

“Does my face look like I care? Change the batteries.” 

Cynthia stretched her legs out while taking another drag of the cigarette before swinging her feet down, adjusting her positioning in her chair and resting her elbows up on the desk. She pinched the bridge of her nose and held out her empty hand, Susan procuring a case file out of nowhere and presenting it to her. 

Curt spared a quick glance at the woman sitting next to him and shot her a kind smile, hoping to make her feel more welcome in the room. Her cheeks were a warm pink when she shyly smiled back, Curt noticing one of her hands giving him a slight wave from her lap. He huffed a silent chuckle and looked back to Cynthia, awaiting whatever was about to be declared from her mouth. Most likely something important about the next mission. Some imperative intel. Locations of high interest artefacts.

“You look like a fucking sheep.”

Ah. Okay.

“What the hell is up with your hair, Mega? It’s everywhere. Looks like someone dragged you through a fucking ditch backwards- and that’s a compliment.”

Owen, who had remained silent this entire time, huffed out a quiet laugh. 

Bastard.

“Well,” Curt sniffed, not even sparing a glance in Owen’s direction. “Thanks. I guess.”

“You’re not welcome. Can we begin now?” Cynthia asked, slapping the case file onto the desk in front of Curt. It made the scientist next to Curt jump just slightly, but Curt politely ignored it. Save her the embarrassment. He slid the file from the desk onto his lap, toying with the pages but not yet opening it.

“I’ve been ready this entire time.” Curt looked around the room once more, noting that Owen was already holding his own file. The scientist wasn’t. He paused, eyeing her up before looking back to Cynthia. “Are we gonna get introduced or what?”

Cynthia just sighed, rolling her eyes and pointing to the woman. “Curtis, Barbara. Barbara, Curtis.”

Finally. A name. He extended a hand, taking her smaller one in his large one and shaking it with a warm smile. “Hi, Barbara. I’m Curt. Nice to meet you.”

She gave him an equally warm smile back, her hand looking tiny in his huge one. She giggled nervously, blonde hair bouncing slightly as she spoke. “Just Barb! You can just call me Barb.” She paused, before quickly adding on, “Hi, Curt.”

“Have you- ah- met Carvour over there?” Curt threw a pointed look at the other man before returning his gaze to Barb. 

“Yes, Curt,” Owen cut in. “ _ Some _ agents actually show up to briefings on time.”

“Gee, way to let the lady speak for herself.” Curt rolled his eyes, throwing an apologetic glance at said ‘lady’. Barb just sat awkwardly. 

“Boys?” Cynthia flitted between them both of them, eyes wide and a smile that was ice cold. “Are you done?”

Curt put his attention back on his boss, straightening himself on the worn in chair and nodding his head slightly. “Sorry.”

Owen just looked back out the window.

Cynthia, looking like she’d rather be bashing her head against a wall, motioned at Barb with a wave of her hand, who hesitated before speaking. “So, as I was saying.. the trials have finally been successful. It’s taken us.. a  _ while,  _ but- with everyone’s help- it’s fully functional. Fit for use in the field as soon as you’re ready for it.”

Cynthia looked impressed for once, nodding her head in thought as she nursed her cigarette. Susan’s face remained blank.

“And how many do you have? Sizes? Different styles?”

“Well,” Barb looked over her shoulder, and for the first time since he entered the room Curt noticed a mannequin standing behind them, dressed in a suit that looked well tailored. It was a perfect black, a simple design but looked elegant nonetheless. “Right now, we only have the one.. but we’re working on more! It’s difficult to get all the adjustments right, especially with so many changes being made to it. Hopefully now that we’ve got one down the others will come flying out!”

“Sure.” Cynthia nodded. She motioned with her cigarette once more, looking at the tuxedo rather than Barb. “And who’s this supposed to fit?”

Just as Curt was admiring the stylish looking jacket and kinda hoping he could at least try it on before it was taken away again, he noticed Barb looking directly at him. 

“Well- Agent Mega, actually. We figured that he would be a good fit for the first field trial run- you, ah, like to put things to the test. If it survives you, it’ll survive anyone. Plus we already had his measurements from previous tech work, it was an easy choice.” Barb looked over to Owen, who still hadn’t joined them and sat on a chair. “And- hey! Maybe the Brits would let us make one for you too, Agent Carvour.”

“Maybe, love.” Owen turned around, folding his arms in front of his chest. “Though I can’t imagine they’d much enjoy being in your debt.”

“I’ll talk to them. I’ve been keeping some of their lab techs sweet, maybe we could make a deal!” 

Owen nodded, giving her a slight smile. “That would be lovely, dear, thank you. I’ll leave that to you and Cynthia. I doubt they’d appreciate my input on the matter.”

Barb just politely smiled back at him, a little giddy at the thought of being called ‘dear’ and ‘love’ by the charming Englishman. 

As Cynthia was putting out her current cigarette, Barb looked back to her with a questioning look. “Is there anything else I can help you with while I’m here?”

Cynthia thought about it for a second, rubbing her face slightly as she did so. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll be in touch.”

Assuming that was her queue to leave, Barb hurriedly gathered her things and stood up from her seat, straightening out her clothes and nodding goodbye to everyone in the room, giving a small wave to Curt as she walked past. And, like the smoke from Cynthia’s cigarette, she was gone. 

“Carvour.” Cynthia clicked her fingers. “Sit down. I’ve got a mission to brief.”

\---------

Curt was squatting behind a wall with his gun in hand, finger on the trigger. Why was he always squatting? It was his least favourite work out. Lifting weights you at least had something to focus on, a goal- bigger weights, more of a challenge. But with squatting it was just up, down, up, down, drink water, up, down. Nothing exciting. He lost interest quickly. 

Plus, with lifting weights, at least there was something to feel, something you could look at. Hell, even pull ups were better. Still just going up and down, but at least your hands had something to do.

His hands had something to do right now. Pull the trigger as soon as he needed to. Stay at attention in the meantime.

Time always moved strangely going from Cynthia’s office to the mission location. It was still the same day- late afternoon going into evening. The warm hues in the sky were telling of the time, even if the watches on their wrists were even more so. 

Curt glanced at his watch anyway, just to double check, and spared a thought of his companion’s watch. He knew Owen had been living in America for the past month or so (a temporary move, whilst he was on loan to the US government) but Curt couldn’t shake the memory of his time piece being 5 hours ahead on one of their first missions together. Owen had nonchalantly brushed the matter off, turning the hands back in time as he gave an excuse along the lines of  _ ‘I’m just jet lagged.’  _

Curt couldn’t help but assume that if it had been the other way around, Owen would have shamed him for a careless mistake.

“Mm.” Owen hummed from beside him. His face looked like he was sniffing the air, his expression not completely readable. It wasn’t one of disgust, at least. “That smells nice.”

Curt blinked. “What?”

“Your cologne.” Owen said, as if it was obvious. “It smells nice.”

“Oh.” Curt sniffed once, checking if you could even smell the bad cologne he’d haphazardly sprayed that morning. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” Owen nodded, returning back to focussing on the task at hand. “You’ll have to give me the name.”

“Sure.” Curt had never been more caught off guard in his life. “Anytime.”

Owen smoothed his hair back as he looked around the hallway they were currently squatting in. He always used so much gel, slicked completely back and rarely ever moving out of place. Curt couldn’t help but wonder how soft his hair would be without all the product in. 

He thought it would be almost fluffy. Maybe even a little curly. Nice to run his fingers through. Rub his cheek into it.

Hang on.

Wait a minute.

“Mega?” 

Shit.

“Yeah?”

“On my mark.”

Oh.

Stop thinking about his hair.

“I’m following.”

Owen stuck three fingers up.

Focus.

Two fingers.

_ Stop thinking about his hair. _

One finger.

Go.

They both jumped up from their hiding spot and aimed their guns on whichever enemy they saw first. Curt’s heart was  _ racing _ . 

Hand, finger, pull the trigger, make sure he’s down, choose the next target, aim, pull the trigger, next target, move on. 

Simple steps.

Friends don’t obsess over their colleague’s hair.

Especially when said colleague was currently aiming a gun at a man you don’t even know the name of.

Too late to introduce yourself, anyway. The man was on the floor with a bullet in his head.

That’s how many agents found comfort in this line of work. The countless people they kill just to get through to their main goal. Some persuaded themselves that, in order to ensure peace and the greater good or whatever other bullshit phrase they wanted to use, killing them was a necessity. A  _ duty _ . Convince yourself they’re all evil, and suddenly it doesn’t hit as hard.

Of course, that doesn’t work for Curt. He can’t help but think,  _ what if they’re innocent?  _ Forced into work, crime syndicate bosses snapping their fingers and working their magic, goons springing to action and doing their dirty work.

Curt sometimes felt that it mirrored his situation. He didn’t get to choose where he went, what he did. He was just pushed in the right direction and given instructions, the promise of a pat on the back and a handshake from some country’s leader he barely knew if he succeeded. 

He’d asked Owen about it once. They’d been sitting across from each other on a secret service jet (the budget had been high) and Curt had been watching Owen’s hands as they cleaned the gun they were holding. Weapon taken apart, pieces resting on the table that had separated the two agents. 

Curt remembered that he had tried to stretch his legs out, the seats not the most comfortable in the world, and he had bumped into Owen’s. The other man didn’t react, focused on his gun, and Curt wasn’t going to deny that the comforting warmth of the other man seeping into his legs had been soothing after a shaky mission. 

So, he left his legs there. Almost tangled in Owen’s. 

Neither of them had mentioned it since.

“How do you do it?”

“Well.” Owen had looked up from his firearm, not expecting Curt’s voice to cut through the almost silence of the cabin of the jet. “I usually use gun oil. Makes for better results. But, obviously, can’t really take oil on a plane. Can’t imagine anything good would come from it--“

“No, no, I- “ Curt had sighed. “I don’t mean the gun. I mean- well- I  _ guess  _ I mean the gun in a way-“

“Spit it out.”

Curt had hesitated.

“How do you kill?”

Owen frowned. His left hand had dropped the cloth he’d been using and he’d brought it up to Curt’s direct line of sight. He mimed cocking a gun in the air and aimed the pretend weapon at Curt’s head, between his eyes. Then, with one long finger, he pulled the trigger.

Curt flinched.

“I  _ don’t  _ mean the  _ gun. _ ”

“I know. I understand what you’re asking.” Owen had slowly lowered his hand until he reached the cloth again, going back to cleaning.

“So? Where’s your answer?”

“I just gave you it.” Owen was focusing intensely on the barrel. Curt could see that his hands were tense. “One shot. No pain.”

“Oh.”

Curt was brought back to reality. 

Only a split second had passed.

Owen had killed another man in the meantime. True to his word, the only bullet wound was in the middle of his head. Curt still found the sight of empty eyes with blood dripping into them unsettling. A shiver ran through him.

“Are we done here?” Owen asked, running his fingers through his hair as he brushed back loose strands behind his ears. Curt could see that Owen’s chest was almost heaving, whether from adrenaline, fear, or a wicked combination of the two. Owen tried to keep his voice steady, though. He always did. Of course, even just asking the question gave the answer you were looking for, but Owen liked to ask it anyway. A sort of way to wrap things up, Curt supposed. 

“Yeah, I think we’re good.” Curt eyed up the bodies on the floor that  _ he’d  _ put there. “Enemies neutralised.”

“Wonderful.” Owen said. The situation was anything but. Owen put his gun back into its holster with no kind of delicacy before fully turning to Curt and sighing out what sounded to be like a breath he’d been holding for some while. “Next room, eh, old boy?”

“The work never stops, huh?” Curt echoed Owen and also returned his firearm to its home. He rubbed at his face, massaging into his closed eyes before lightly slapping his cheeks a few times. “Could do with a drink. Nothin’ to get me drunk, y’know? Just enough to get me a little wired.”

“Wouldn’t turn down a glass of wine. Got a bottle of 1920 Carménère sitting at home and here I am, not a corkscrew in sight. It’s almost criminal.”

Curt, glancing at the bodies littering the floor, would agree with the ‘almost criminal’ part. 

“Wine’s gross, anyway. Tastes like vinegar.”

“Not if you get a good one it doesn’t. Choose the right grape, pick a decent producer, then age it for at least a couple of years. Smooth sailing from there.”

“Gross grape juice is gross grape juice, no matter how much you pay for it. If I’m buying booze and it makes me get an extra twenty dollar bill outta my wallet for one bottle then it’s too much.” Curt could easily imagine Owen laying across a chaise lounge delicately sipping his wine and reading some fancy book. Probably playing classical music on an extravagant gramophone. “Cheap, strong, and lots of it. That’s how you buy alcohol.”

“By the sounds of it,  _ you _ drink alcohol for the high of getting drunk.  _ I  _ drink alcohol to enjoy it.”

“Damn right I do.” Curt motioned for Owen to follow him down the hall, moving to their next location. Owen followed, one step behind Curt. “But I enjoy it, too. Takes way too long for me to get drunk- you’d almost think someone was trying to punish me for it. Giving me a sign to stop.”

Owen politely huffed a laugh at the joke, but Curt could tell he didn’t find it funny.

“..Drinking that many glasses before you’re wasted means you kinda have to enjoy the taste or else you’re fucked.” Curt lowered his voice gradually as he spoke, wary of where they were. “The cheap stuff tastes alright, surprisingly. Not as nice as the stuff at the bar, but it does the job.”

“But don’t you want to splurge for that little bit of luxury?” Owen questioned as he looked around, checking over his shoulder. “Drinking alcohol isn’t like you’re just drinking water. It’s not there for sustenance.”

Curt hesitated before his next reply.

“I- ah- don’t really drink it for ‘the luxury’ most of the time. More- uh-” Curt thought about it for a second, almost ashamed of the answer. “..An escape.”

“Oh.” Curt didn’t have to look at Owen to know there was a pitying look plastered on his face. Sympathetic or mocking, Curt didn’t want to know. “Love..”

“Don’t.” Curt still didn’t look Owen’s way.

There were a few echoed footsteps from Owen before he let out a barely there sigh. “Alright.”

Curt didn’t know if he should say ‘thank you’ or not. 

He decided not.

“This door?”

There was a pause from Owen before he replied. “That door.”

“On ‘go’.” Curt looked back just to catch Owen nodding in his direction. He lifted up three fingers, focusing back in front of him. “Three.” He lowered a finger and whispered. “Two.”

He lowered another finger and mouthed ‘one’. He pointed his hand forward and mouthed  _ ‘go’ _ .

Springing into action, Curt kicked down the door in front of them and charged through. 

From behind him, he heard Owen yell, “Get down!”

Curt listened, heart racing as he fell to the ground immediately and rolled himself towards the closest shield he could find- behind a parked truck. The wheels were big enough that if he curled into a ball it would cover him completely.

He heard the grunts of his colleague as he grappled with whatever goons had been waiting for them, the Brit swearing occasionally out of pain or frustration. 

Curt peered over the tyre of the truck just in time to see Owen get pistol whipped by the guard, face swinging round as droplets of blood fell from the new gash on his cheek. 

Curt swore under his breath and immediately dived out, coming up from behind Owen and shoving him out the way. The guard’s hand instantly flew out and grabbed Curt’s wrists, trying to wrench the gun out of his hand.

Curt had a ferocious snarl on his face, teeth gritted as he considered his next moves carefully.

Well. ‘Carefully’.

He twisted his arms, getting them tangled in the goon’s, and dropped his weapon to the floor with a clatter. He heard Owen shout out to him from his place on the floor somewhere to the left of Curt, but the American was preoccupied.

Gathering all the energy Curt could muster, he kicked out his leg and got the guard in the crotch, instantly crouching down and using the opposition’s moment of vulnerability to flip the man up and over Curt’s shoulder, throwing the both of them to the ground.

Curt landed on top of him, wrestling with him as he tried to pin him to the concrete and grab the weapon from his hand. The guard beneath him struggled wildly, limbs thrashing as he tried to get out of Curt’s grip. He spat up at him and attempted to headbutt him, but Curt dodged his head out the way and punched the man in the gut.

“Dude! Gross--” He punched him again, moving his feet so that the guard’s legs were pinned. “Don’t fuckin’ spit on a guy!”

He felt someone join them, and, assuming it was another guard, tried to throw the new person off, kicking a leg out and hitting them as much as he could.

“Curt! You-” Owen grunted, falling off the pair and crawling to above their heads on the floor. “You arsehole, I’m already bloody hurt!”

“Kinda fuckin’ busy right now!” Curt was digging his nails into the guard’s wrists, willing and wishing that he would free the gun he was holding. “Drop your damn weapon!”

The goon spat in Curt’s face once more.

“God, that’s disgusting-” Owen’s hand came into view, wrenching the gun out of his hand and immediately bringing it down to strike him on the head. 

He wavered for a second before falling unconscious, head falling back into the concrete.

Curt’s chest was heaving as he rolled off the guy, flopping onto the ground next to him and splaying his limbs out.

“Jesus,” he breathed out, pulse racing. He glanced to the guard and eyed up the already blooming bruise on his forehead. “That’s gotta hurt.”

“Yes, it bloody well does.” He heard Owen’s annoyed voice from behind him, craning his neck to see the frowning Brit touching gently at his face. “Look at my cheek!”

“Yeah, yeah, nothin’ a couple stitches can’t fix.”

“Lovely. Really good sympathy, thank you.”

Curt waved his hand at him in the air, knowing that Owen knew he wasn’t being malicious. “Whatever, pretty boy.”

Curt’s eyes widened as he realised what he’d said. “I mean--”

Owen just laughed. “Thank you, I suppose.” He grimaced as what Curt assumed was a rush of pain went through him. “This is going to leave an awful scar.”

“You’ll look like a pirate.” Curt crooked his index finger to look like a pirate’s hook. “Argh.”

“Shut up.” Owen huffed, a smile creeping through. “You’ll have to--  _ shit-- _ ”

“I’ll have to shit?”

“Move!  _ Knife! _ ” 

Curt was suddenly shoved out the way, smashing into the wall and scrabbling to see what was happening.

The guard on the floor had been feigning unconsciousness, and was now on top of Owen.

Curt saw three things; the guard’s snarl, the knife in his hand, and Owen’s wide eyes.

He of all people knew what was about to happen.

He flung his hand out and fumbled to reach Owen, trying to save him from the fate that was coming.

“ _ No!  _ Fuck-”

One of Owen’s hands was holding the guard up above him, trying to stop him from coming down. His other hand was outstretched on the floor.

Towards Curt.

The guard raised the knife. 

Owen looked at Curt desperately. 

The knife came down.

Curt saw Owen convulse before he heard him scream out in pain, the knife firmly planted in his stomach. 

Curt got to him quick enough to shove the guard off him, trying with all his might to not disrupt the weapon stabbed into Owen.

He used his own gun to pistol whip the guard, repeatedly hitting him in the face until his face was bruised and bloody,  _ actually  _ falling conscious this time. 

Curt wiped at his face, trying to clean any blood that may have flicked onto him, and flung himself at Owen, shrugging his jacket off as quick as he could and wrapping it around Owen, trying to stem the bleeding.

“Owen? Owen, stay with me.” Curt looked down on Owen’s face, his pain easily readable in his expressions. His heart race was  _ rapid _ . “Can you hear me?”

Owen nodded, eyes clenching shut as one of his hands desperately clung to Curt’s arm and squeezed hard.

“Good- alright- shit- do you feel dizzy? Cold?”

Owen nodded again, face pale, looking sickly in the lighting of the room. 

“Fuck- shock. Can you-” Curt took a moment to breath. “Can you raise your legs? Here, I’ll put ‘em over my shoulders, alright?”

Owen just nodded once more, movements weaker. Curt moved around Owen, one hand still applying pressure to the wound as he lifted his legs one by one to rest them on his shoulder.

“Don’t you dare go cold on me, alright? I don’t wanna have to lug your lanky body outta here, you hear?”

Curt heard the slightest huff of a laugh come from the other man.

“C’mon, just hold out 'til I get back up here, alright? C’mon..” Curt whispered under his breath, raising his comm to his lips to call for a medical team. “C’mon, c’mon..”

“Curt..” Owen whispered.

“Yeah?” Curt’s head whipped up to look at Owen.

He blacked out.

  
  


**_Two down. Seven to go._ **


	3. Three

Curt fell into his seat and slammed the door shut, facing directly forward through the windscreen and refusing to turn his head to the other person just joining him in the car.

“Belt.”

“Oh,  _ ‘belt’,  _ really!?” Curt questioned in a mocking tone, still not turning his head. “You pull that fuckin’ stunt and you think a  _ seatbelt  _ is gonna make any fuckin’ difference?”

“Curt, belt. And stop swearing.”

“Fuck you.”

Owen was staring straight at him from the driver’s seat, face neutral despite the situation. “I’ve noticed you swear every other word when you’re angry. So, stop swearing. Might make you less angry.”

“Like I said before,” Curt glanced at Owen for a split second, his unaffected face somehow making him angrier. “Fuck you.”

Owen just sighed before turning back to the steering wheel. Buckling himself up, he pushed the keys into the ignition and started up the car. “At least put your belt on. I didn’t pass my test first time for some cowboy years down the line to bugger it all up by being too pissed to put a belt on. I mean, really, Curt, even children know to wear one nowadays.”

“You are,” Curt started, and his face might as well have been bright red with steam coming from his ears like a power plant. “So  _ incredibly _ fuckin’  _ unbelievable _ \- I mean- first of all, you fuck up the  _ entire  _ fuckin’ mission! You almost kill us both- you- you piss me off so fuckin’ much and  _ then  _ you have the  _ audacity _ to think telling me to wear a fuckin’ seatbelt is reconciliation, then have the novel idea of comparing me to a fuckin’  _ child!?  _ I can’t wait to get back on that plane to America.  _ ‘Hey, Cynthia, you’ll never fuckin’ guess what happened--!’ _ ”

“Oh, shut up would you?” Owen interrupted him, feet toying with the accelerator and clutch pedals. He put the car into first gear and, as soon as Curt begrudgingly shut his trap, he started moving forward. Gradually working through the gears, it wasn’t until he was going 50 along the gravel road that he finally spoke up. “I’m sorry.”

Curt just huffed a bitter sounding laugh.

“Is that all I get?” Owen asked, gripping the steering wheel slightly tighter.

“I could ask the same question.” 

Owen took a moment to take a deep breath in.

“I’m sorry. For ‘fucking up the entire mission’. Not my intent, I assure you.”

“Can you be sincere for once in your life?” 

Owen glanced over to Curt and noticed that his hand was tightly holding onto his jacket and playing with the zipper, rhythmically flicking it back and forth between his fingers. His other hand was resting on his thigh and tapping the same rhythm out, both hands working in harmony. Looking back to the road for a moment to check for hazards, his eyes flew back to Curt’s face. Now, it was less angry and more.. Panic. Fear, almost. Like the situation had finally settled in Curt’s head.

His eyebrows were slightly furrowed and raised up just a little towards the centre, creating a crease in his skin. His eyes were wide and, even though they were facing forward, they weren’t focused on anything in particular.

This wasn’t the same frustrated American from just moments ago.

Owen paused for a moment.

“Curt?”

Curt just hummed in response, seemingly focusing on breathing at a steady rate.

This  _ definitely  _ wasn’t the same frustrated American from just moments ago.

“You alright?”

“Do I look okay, Owen?”

“Well,” Owen briefly considered politely lying. “No.”

Curt went back to staying quiet. His fingers were still tapping out the same rhythm and flicking his zipper, a quick  _ one-two-three-four _ over and over again. He mumbled something under his breath, much too quiet for Owen’s ears to pick up.

“Sorry?” Owen’s eyes were still flicking between Curt and the road ahead of him, trying to gauge the situation.

Curt let out a small sigh before speaking. “I said, ‘there you go, then’. Just- give me a minute.”

Owen stayed frozen before giving the tiniest nod and facing forward again, pretending to preoccupy himself with fixing the rear view mirror as if it wasn’t in the perfect position already. The road they were travelling on wasn’t the most exciting- it was mostly straight with few bends that didn’t require much attention at all, and being in the middle of nowhere was a huge plus considering there wouldn’t be any hazards on the road. The odd low flying bird, maybe.

The tension in the compact car felt thick in the air, and Owen wasted no time in rolling down his window to let the wind fly in, hopefully blowing away the anxiety in the air too. If anything, the cool air was a relief to his flushed skin after a physically demanding mission, and he wouldn’t deny that his hair flowing in the breeze felt good. 

Curt, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about Owen’s floating locks. 

He was panicking.  _ Scared _ .

No- no, he didn’t get scared. One of America’s top agents didn’t get scared. Rather, he was just.. A little shaken. 

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t toed the line with death before. It was a natural occurrence, given his career choice, and all. But this time, this mission, he had looked death right in the eye. Face-to-face, close enough to kiss. 

And that was fucking terrifying.

The mission had been going so well- they’d split up and agreed to meet back at the car. Curt had done his job and blown through the guards in the facility, taking them down one by one and not even stopping for a breath. He’d found the kidnapped foreign diplomat, released her from her bonds and returned her to the helicopter waiting on standby near the grounds, taking her away to safety and quickly relaying back to Cynthia via his comm that he’d completed his part of the mission.

Owen, on the other hand, did not. His job should have been easy; get in, disarm the bomb, get out. An inside spy had already given them the specifics on the bomb and it wasn’t even difficult to defuse. Professionals from the agency had provided clear instructions on what to do- just a few damn wires he needed to cut and unplug. And yet,  _ somehow _ , he still managed to fuck it up. 

Curt had felt it before he saw it. The rumbling in the ground, the shift in the air, his feet shaking despite the fact that he wasn’t moving them himself. 

Then he’d heard it. The sound of cement clashing together, concrete crumbling and grinding, floors and ceilings collapsing. Wires within the walls coming undone and sparking, electricity buzzing as the lights cut off.

Then it happened. He fell down a story or two, he couldn’t tell how many, landing roughly on a pile of rubble, his back immediately full of pain and gashes on his uncovered arms. He remembers swearing loudly as he swung his arm in front of his face, trying to protect his eyes from the dust and gravel falling over him. His hand frantically went to his comm on his wrist, praying a thanks to anyone that was listening for not letting it break, and dialling in Owen and yelling down the microphone.

“Owen?  _ Owen?  _ Do you-  _ fuck- _ ” He spluttered as more gravel fell over him , using his other hand to wave the air clean in front of him. “Do you copy? Carvour?  _ Owen? _ ”

There was a crackle from the other end of the line before a shaky voice replied: “I copy.”

“Oh, thank God.” Curt had breathed out to himself. He didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t replied. “Where are you?”

“I- uh-” Owen’s voice was hoarse and dry, pausing to try and clear his throat. “Basement, I think. It- it happened too fast to tell.”

“Jesus Christ, I-” Curt had taken his finger off his comm to swear loudly as a nasty gash on his arm sent a ripple of pain through him. “Shit, okay. Are you-- legs. How are your legs?”

“Still there.”

Curt would’ve laughed if it was any other situation.

“Owen, come on- can you move them?”

“Yes, Curt, they’re fine.” Owen had paused a moment. “Well, actually, they really fucking hurt, but I can walk. Just about.”

“Not stuck under anything?” Curt wanted nothing more than to be in his soft, warm,  _ safe  _ bed right now. But, here he was, covered in rubble, splayed out on his back on a pile of broken concrete, blood and dirt painted over the thousands of bruises he was guaranteed to have. And those were the mildest surface injuries. Who knew what had happened internally. 

“Nothing I can’t move myself.” As if on cue, Curt heard the noise of rocks grinding against each other come from his grainy comm, Owen’s grunts and moans of pain accompanying them. “And you? Not-  _ bloody hell _ \- stuck under anything? Still got legs?”

Curt just hummed back to him, resting his head back and breathing deeply for a few moments. “Just half dead.”

“Get your foot out the grave, Curt. Imagine the paperwork.” 

“There’s already  _ gonna  _ be paperwork. How the hell did you manage to fuck this up!?”

“Hang on--”

“It was-  _ ugh _ \- supposed to be  _ easy _ , Owen!” Curt could feel the anger rising up in him, the pain and panic mixing with it and creating a horrible concoction of rage. He knew his voice was starting to become more heated- louder, biting through the air- but he couldn’t find it in him to stop. “We almost fucking  _ died! _ Because you can’t even disarm one damn bomb!? Three fucking wires, Owen. You had to cut two and pull one,  _ how  _ the hell do you  _ fuck that up!? _ ”

“I didn’t--”

“No! You did! You-  _ god _ that fucking hurts- you did fuck this up. You’re lucky that diplomat was already in that chopper otherwise I’d kill you myself. And then Cynthia. And then MI6. I can’t believe you--”

“Would you bloody shut up!” Owen groaned after yelling, a faint  _ ‘shit’ _ echoing through the speaker. “Can I get out the damn rubble before you start berating me!?”

Curt’s heart was pounding, and he didn’t know whether it was from the rage, the adrenaline, or the panic. Either way, he wasn’t happy. He spoke in a low voice, his emotions clear to Owen: “Just meet me at the car.”

So he did.

Curt’s breathing was evening out and the panic within him was less evident, although still there. Owen was still silently driving, which he was grateful for, but Curt was still incredibly frustrated with him. It really should have been easy- three damn wires. That’s all it took. It’s not even like Owen was going in without wire cutters- if Curt looked close enough he could see the outline of them in Owen’s left pocket. The American had no idea how the Brit managed to mess this up.

“I was fucking scared.” He spoke up, unprompted. Owen looked over to him quickly, a glint of surprise on his face before he covered it with neutrality again and looked back towards the road. He noticed Owen swallow, but he didn’t say anything. Curt carried on. “We nearly fucking died, and I was scared. I- God- I really don’t know what happened for you to let the bomb go off, but-- Jesus fuck, don’t do it again.”

Owen took that as his cue to speak. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know what happened either.” 

Curt stared right at him, a bewildered look plastered on his face. What the Hell does he mean ‘I don’t know what happened’? Curt had a million questions running through his mind, begging to be asked, but all that came out was, “ _ Huh? _ ”

There was a small, sad smile on Owen’s face that disappeared as quickly as it came, and he checked his rear view mirror before clicking his indicator down, pulling the car over to the left of the road. 

Curt thought it was almost endearing that he’d still use his blinker on a completely empty road, but he didn’t say so out loud.

“Owen?”

He turned the engine off and pulled the keys out of the ignition before turning to Curt, pocketing the keys. He hummed, a questioning tone, and raised an eyebrow at Curt.

“You wanna tell me why we’re pulled over?”

“Because you,” Owen started, opening the door and pulling himself out. “Need medical attention. I didn’t realise how bad those gashes on your arm were. We have a med kit in the boot.”

Curt had no clue what was happening. You could never get a straight answer from Owen, apparently.

Curt’s door was opened and he peered out to find Owen standing there with a small med kit in his huge hands. It was almost funny. 

“Come on, out you get.” Owen took a step back and extended a hand to Curt, who hesitantly took it and let himself be pulled out of the car. Owen gently pushed him so that he was sitting on the hood of the car and used his free hand to pull at Curt’s jacket. 

Curt, wary of the injuries on his arm, carefully unrolled his sleeves and pulled his jacket off, slinging it over the roof of the car. Now that he was looking at his arms in the open, Owen was right- the gashes were nasty. 

“Right,” Owen rolled his own sleeves up, his arms somehow much less affected. Lucky bastard. “These need cleaning, first of all. We don’t have any running water, so, saline solution it is.”

“You don’t have to walk me through the steps.” Curt told him, voice dripping with exhaustion. “I know what’s happening.”

“It’s good practice.” Owen hit back. He was rooting through the med kit for the small bottle of saline water and a gauze, a small quirk of his lips flashing on his face when he found it. “I’m going to start dabbing at them. It might sting.”

Curt rolled his eyes, fully knowing the process of cleaning a wound. He could tell Owen was just putting off talking to him about the mission, and though there was the tiniest bit of sympathy for Owen within him, it was mostly irritation. 

“Owen.” There was the sting. “Stop dancing around the subject, alright? Just tell me what happened.”

Owen’s face was one of concentration as he, surprisingly gently, cleaned up Curt’s arms. His hands were a little roughed up from the rubble they’d been crawling through, dry patches of skin littered over the softness underneath, but they were still gentle. Fingers delicately holding his arms, almost cradling him as his other hand lightly dabbed and wiped at his skin, cleaning away what felt like layers and layers of dirt and blood that had caked on.

When Owen got to cleaning Curt’s hands, he held them for almost too long, cleaning them much slower than the rest of him. His fingers gently held onto Curt’s, the way a gentleman courting a lady would do so when going to place a kiss. 

Curt felt his face flushing at the thought. He desperately hoped that Owen wouldn’t notice, embarrassed by the redness of his cheeks and the childish response to something so vaguely intimate. 

_ This is not romantic. _ He told himself.  _ This is  _ not _ a romantic situation. You nearly died. It’s his fault. You’re  _ mad  _ at him.  _

Curt took a shaky deep breath.

_ And he doesn’t like men. He doesn’t  _ want  _ men. Especially men like  _ you.

Owen put the now-dirty gauzes to the side, a small pile of the pads sitting next to Curt on the car. “I’ll dry them, now.” He pulled out a small wad of tissues from the med kit, starting to pat Curt’s arms dry. Curt was still staring at his hands, surprised at how gentle they could be. 

Owen had never been this gentle with him before.

“I-” Owen cleared his throat, dryness making his voice croaky. He spoke quietly, as if hoping everything he said would be taken off in the wind and float away. “I really don’t know what happened. I was- I mean, bloody hell, I’d already done two of the wires. It took no time at all- you’re right. It was easy. I unplugged the one then found the first of the other two and cut it. It was  _ easy. _ ”

Owen was gesturing with his hands in between working on Curt, setting the tissues down with the used gauzes next to Curt. Curt watched his every movement, partially because there was nothing else to look at and partially because he couldn’t take his eyes off him. 

“And then it just- well.” Owen pulled out two long bandages from the kit, passing one to Curt for him to hold and wrapping the other around one of Curt’s arms. “It went tits up.”

Curt found himself squeezing the bandage that Owen had given him, treating it as if it was a shitty stress toy. He shook his head slightly in disbelief, cautiously asking, “So what happened?”

Owen took the other bandage from Curt and played with it in his hands for a few seconds, unrolling it and rolling it back up a couple of times before starting to wrap it around Curt’s other arm.

“It just went off.” Owen was quiet. His face had been neutral the entire time, but a flash of fear spread over him for a split second. Like he didn’t mean to, like the expression escaped from him. “I found the other wire, went to cut it, and it exploded before I could do it. I have no idea what happened.”

The only thing Curt could say was, “Oh.”

“Mm. ‘Oh’.” Owen took a deep breath before getting back to work, closing the med kit and disposing of the used gauzes and tissues. He walked around to the back of the car and opened the boot, putting everything back inside before coming back to Curt and handing him his jacket, holding it open for Curt to push him arms through. “I promise. I tried. It just..  _ Happened _ .”

Curt tentatively put his arms through the sleeves, careful not to knock the carefully placed bandages, and went to zip his jacket back up. Owen nudged his hand out the way, however, and zipped up the jacket himself.

“I understand if you’re mad at me. If you’d set off a bomb and nearly killed me.. I’d be pissed too. But I just- I need you to know that I tried. And that I’m sorry. Truly, truly sorry.”

Owen was looking at Curt directly in the eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and anxiety spread over his face. Owen rarely allowed himself to look this vulnerable.

Looking at him this close for the first time since before the bomb, Curt could see the cuts and bruises over his skin. The slightly charred cheeks, ash and dirt clinging onto small burn marks. His eyes were tired, dark circles and droopy eyelids. The light he usually had in his eyes was dimmed, the deep, shining brown almost greyed and dulled. His hair was a mess. Whether from the wind of driving the car or the blast from the bomb, Curt didn’t know (he assumed both), but he couldn’t deny that he had the urge to fix it. To just reach out a shaky hand and brush a few loose strands back from his face, tuck them behind his ear.

So he did.

He heard someone gasp lightly.

It could have been himself or Owen. He had no idea.

Owen’s eyes dropped and his head dipped down, looking in the general direction of the ground. Curt could swear that his cheeks were slightly tinged pink.

His heart was  _ racing _ . Why did he do that?

He could blame it on the shock. It would be fine. It would be  _ fine. _

“I’m-” Curt tried, his voice wavering from nerves.  _ Why  _ did he fix his  _ hair _ ? He cleared his throat, recomposed himself, and looked back at Owen, trying to catch his eyes. “I’m sorry. For- uh- being an ass. I shouldn’t have jumped to anger but I- I was just scared. So scared.”

“I can tell.” Owen quietly added under his breath, an apologetic look on his face. 

“You tried. You tried, and something just happened to go wrong.” He sounded like he was trying to convince both of them, the two men shaken up. They’d been in tricky situations before but… this time was different. It hadn’t felt so real before. The threat of death so close, both separated from each other,  _ alone _ . 

It was a terrifying thought.

“I swear, I tried.”

Curt pushed himself off the hood of the car so he was standing, and forced a small smile onto his lips and targeted it directly at Owen. Using the hand that was the least beat up, he patted his tall friend on the shoulder. “So it’s fine.”

Owen just hesitantly nodded, extending an arm out for Curt to catch as he walked back to the door. Curt playfully knocked it away, fully capable of moving two feet to the left by himself. Owen settled on opening the door for him, closing it behind him as he sat down.

This time, Curt put his seatbelt on.

Owen joined him back in the car, settling into the driver’s seat and pushing the keys back into the ignition. Moving back into first gear, he wordlessly started driving and working up speed once again.

After a few minutes of silence between the two of them- not quite comfortable, but not as tense as it was before- Curt spoke up.

“Hey.”

“Mhm?”

“Partners, right?” 

Owen’s head whipped towards him.

“You said it.”

“Huh?”

“Partners. You called us partners. You’ve never done that before. Always ‘colleagues’.”

“Oh.” Curt blinked. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Curt noticed one of Owen’s fingers nervously tapping on the steering wheel, and the look on his face was, though facing the road, hopeful. Did it really mean this much to Owen? 

“Well, that’s damn rude of me, isn’t it?” Curt huffed a little laugh, hoping that the playfulness would comfort the other man. “Owen Carvour, as annoying of a Brit you are, you’re my partner. Always will be. And we make pretty good partners, if I say so myself.”

Curt couldn’t deny that seeing the smile spread across Owen’s face left a warm feeling in him. The nervous tapping had stopped. Owen was looking into Curt’s eyes, his gaze flitting down for a second before coming back up to meet his, lips spread into a smile that Curt could only describe as blissfully content. His face, thoroughly wrecked from the explosion, now had an air of softness to it- eyes slightly brighter, his expression less painful, more..  _ comfortable. _

Maybe it was the exhaustion forcing him to let his guard down, or maybe it was the rare occasion of Owen being emotionally vulnerable, or maybe it was the fact that Curt, whether he liked it or not, had a soft spot for the man that made Curt mirror his expression, he didn’t know. But what Curt  _ did  _ know was that he smiled right back at him. 

There was a strange feeling in Curt’s chest. Like something was in there, trying to desperately crawl its way out and latching on to his heart on the way. And in his stomach, there were.. Butterflies? That wasn’t right. Curt Mega, fully grown man, didn’t get butterflies in his stomach when he looked at his partner. His  _ work  _ partner. 

And yet, here he was. Tummy full of butterflies. 

It’s only one smile, one damn smile on that damn Brit’s face and he feels like he was floating, and his eyes are soft, and his hair is tucked delicately behind his ear, and his lips look so inviting, and he shouldn’t be feeling like this but he  _ is, _ and his heart is beating, and he could swear he could hear Owen’s racing too, and fuck it,  _ fuck it _ , this day’s been weird enough already, just hold his hand, reach out your fingers and  _ touch him-- _

Then a tyre bursts. 

There’s a loud  **_bang_ ** and another tyre bursts, and Owen’s soft, open face immediately switches to one of fear and anger, and his hands work intensely on the steering wheel and the gear stick as he tries to keep the car steady, but they’re wild over the road, so wild, and, God, Curt can see a van speeding up behind them with blacked out windows and guns pointed directly at them, and--

Another tyre bursts. 

Curt scrambled for his own gun, hastily opening the glove compartment and cocking the weapon, wasting no time and smashing the window open with his already in pain elbow, leaning out and aiming.

His heart was fucking racing and not in the enticing way it had been when looking at Owen.

The fear of death had visited him for the second time today, and it almost felt like a punishment for being so bold just seconds earlier. Owen hadn’t told Curt to stop, even when it was so painfully obvious that Curt had been reaching out to hold his hand on the steering wheel, and now was not the time for Curt to think of the implications.

Bullets were ricocheting off the car, some smashing through the windows and sending glass flying everywhere, just barely missing the two men. All of the mirrors had been cracked beyond repair, decades worth of bad luck latching onto Curt and Owen and holding tight.

Just as Curt was desperately replacing the clip in his gun, he felt a blinding pain at his right cheek, the feeling ripping through his whole body as he screamed out on instinct. 

One of Curt’s hands moved up, unintentionally harshly touching his face as the car bumped down the road. He could tell from the feeling of his fingertips at his cheeks that a bullet had just grazed along his skin. He was damn lucky it hadn’t gone through him. 

“What the hell was that!?” Owen yelled out, eyes wide as he focused on dodging bullets and driving a half dead car away from danger.

“They shot at me!” Curt fired more rounds at the van pursuing them, praying that they would hit something of value. “Bastards got my fucking face!” 

More shots were hit at their car and, though neither said it out loud, they both knew they were fighting a battle they couldn’t win. 

The van was approaching with who knows how many agents inside, and, after blowing up their whole facility, Curt assumed they’d be furious. 

He could clearly imagine their orders:  _ kill them. Whatever it takes. _

“Fuck!” Curt slammed his gun against the interior of the car. “I’m out of bullets. I’m fucking out of bullets.”

His chest was heaving, matching Owen’s perfectly, and he slumped back down into his seat. He looked over to Owen, who was still furiously focusing on keeping them safe. 

“Owen,” Curt started, looking behind them at the vehicle on their tail. They were still firing at them. The noise of the bullet hitting the car was almost too much for Curt, and he so desperately wanted to plug his ears just so he wouldn’t have to hear it. “Come on, you know what you gotta do. There’s no way we’re gonna get away.”

“No, we can- we can just--”

“ _ Owen. _ ” Curt cut Owen’s desperate voice off. “There’s no way. Just do it.”

The British man swallowed, nodding his head just slightly. 

“Time it right. Pretend to be dead. You know the drill.”

Owen nodded once more, fingers squeezing the steering wheel and eyes darkening as he put all his focus on the van behind them.

It was as if time stopped working, everything happening too slowly and too fast all at once. Curt braced himself in the car, seeing Owen doing the same, and he found his hands once again playing with the zip on his jacket. 

Owen waited, timing it perfectly as they had agreed. There was a flurry of bullets fired at the car once more, and Owen took that as his cue.

He violently whipped his hands on the steering wheel, sending the car swerving and rolling off the side of the road. The noises were unbearable, squeaks and grinding and explosions and yells, and Curt had to close his eyes. He couldn’t look. He  _ couldn’t _ .

Then it went black.

He could smell ash, and his lungs were full of smoke, and the stench of charred rubber filled his nostrils, and his head felt like someone was bashing one hundred drums around him.

Everything hurt. Just like the damn explosion in the facility, everything hurt and he didn’t know if Owen was okay. He could feel panic rising inside of him, instinct telling him to open his eyes and figure the situation out, but then he remembered:  _ pretend to be dead. _

He could almost laugh. ‘Pretend to be dead’. For all he knew, he  _ was  _ dead. 

As long as the bastards following them assumed they were six feet under, they were safe, injuries be damned. For fuck’s sake, Owen just crashed their car and sent them rolling down a bank, they  _ had  _ to think they were dead. Curt didn’t have a plan B.

He waited for what felt like a century, ears perking up at every sound he could hear. He felt sick. From nerves and the fucking car crash. If he wasn’t in pain before, he definitely was now.

They were upright, at least. Curt knew that much. 

Good job he wore that damn seatbelt.

After another century of waiting, Curt couldn’t take it anymore. His eyes flew open, searching around in the new environment he found himself in.

His neck hurt like shit, but that wouldn’t stop him from whipping to look over at Owen. 

At his partner.

His eyes were still closed. He had cuts and gashes over his skin, a few pieces of glass having found their way into him. Curt assumed he looked the exact same. 

Owen, however, was slumped in his seat. Leaning forward, pressing against the seatbelt over his chest, head flopped down. 

“You better just be a damned good actor.”

Curt’s hands scrambled for the belt buckle, unclicking it as fast as he could and kicking the wrecked door open. He pulled himself from the car, legs wobbling from weakness, and he had to cough and wave away smoke escaping from the bonnet of the car into the air directly in front of him. 

He limped around to Owen’s side of the car, wrenching his door open and finding that it fell off its hinge. He threw it to the side, the loud clang of it hitting the floor going through him, and he leant down as best as he could to get on Owen’s level.

His hair was covering his face, long strands of brown like a thin veil hiding away Owen’s features. Curt’s hand reached out, shaking beyond belief, as he so very carefully gathered the hair and tucked it behind Owen’s ear. 

There was a trickle of blood going down the side of Owen’s face, and Curt used his sleeve to wipe it away, mostly smearing it rather than cleaning it. He gently pushed Owen back by the shoulders until he was resting against his seat, shaking him just slightly to wake him.

Curt waited a second, not seeing anything indicating that Owen was going to wake up anytime soon. 

Curt could throw up. 

His eyes stung as he tried not to cry, tears welling up and making it hard to see, and  _ dammit Curt, now is not the time. _

He took a second to calm his ragged breathing. He was on the verge of breaking down, panic and anxiety seeping into him like someone turned on a tap and left it on, overflowing and getting everywhere.

He took the same shaky hand as before and held it under Owen’s nose, hovering in the air as close as he could get it to him without touching his skin.

Then he focused.  _ Really  _ focused. 

He closed his eyes, trying with all his might to block out every other feeling he had- the wind, the chill creeping over him, the pain in all his limbs, the smells, the sights, the emotions. Everything. 

Then he felt it.

It was barely there, but he  _ felt it. _

Breath coming out of his nose, fanning over Curt’s hand.

Curt could cry.

“Owen?” He did cry. “ _ Owen! _ ”

  
  


**_Three down. Six to go._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seatbelts weren't made compulsory til like the late 60s, but [blows a raspberry] this is my fic and i make the rules  
> i hope everyone is okay in these wild times right now. i know there's a lot happening and i know everything is so overwhelming right now, and i sincerely mean it when i say stay safe. if anyone needs to talk about anything, and you dont even have to know me personally, im a super good listener and an a+ distraction if you need it  
> im going to put link to a website with a bajillion different ways you can help the blm movement. ive personally been donating and signing petitions as i can imagine a lot of you have too. i have an art instagram (@pointlessnach0s) and if you send me proof of a donation to anything supporting the blm movement, i will do you a small commission. please make sure they're new donations  
> here's the link: https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/  
> and, quite frankly, if you dont agree with the blm movement you can fuck off.


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